And you, ye
five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and, eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts !
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element !
Utter forth God, and fill the hill with praise!
Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breastThou too again stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapouring cloud To rise before me- -Rise! O ever rise! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth with her thousand voices praises God.
LORD WELLINGTON'S LANDING IN SPAIN.
(FROM SCOTT'S "VISION OF DON RODERICK.")
There is a Spanish tradition, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the invasion of the Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vauit near Toledo, the opening of which had been denounced as fatal to the Spanish monarchy. The legend adds that his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation of the Saracens, who, in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their dominion. In the poem founded on this tradition, Sir Walter Scott continues the prophetic vision through the succeeding history of the Peninsula, down to the landing of the English troops, who were sent to assist the Spaniards against Napoleon.
While all around was danger, strife, and fear,
While the earth shook, and darken'd was the sky,
And wide Destruction stunn'd the listening ear,
Appall'd the heart and stupified the eye,
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry,
In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite,
Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats high,
Whether it hail the wine-cup or the fight,
And bid each arm be strong or bid each heart be light.
Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout grew loud;
A varied scene the changeful vision show'd;
For where the ocean mingled with the cloud,
A gallant navy stemm'd the billows broad;
From mast and stern St. George's symbol flow'd,
Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear,
Mottling the sea their landward barges row'd,
While flash'd the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear,
And the wild beach return'd the seaman's jovial cheer.
It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight;
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars, Just as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions brightening all the shores, Then banners rise and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come.
A various host they came-whose ranks display,
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,
The deep battalion links its firm array,
And meditates his aim the marksman light;
Far glance the lines of sabres, flashing bright,
Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead,
Lacks not artillery, breathing flame and night,
Nor the fleet ordnance, whirl'd by rapid steed,
That rivals lightnings flash in ruin and in speed.
A various host from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown ;
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And with their deeds of valour deck her crown:
Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,
And her's their scorn of death in freedom's cause;
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,
And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,
And free-born thoughts which league the soldier with
the laws.
And oh loved warriors of the minstrels' land,
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave, The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features and a mien more grave, But ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart so brave As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave, And level for the charge their arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset staid. Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest which each blithe comrade round him flings, And moves to death with military glee;
Boast, Erin! boast them, tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough nature's children, humorous as she,
And HE, yon chieftain,-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle,-the Hero is thine own.
CAIN AT THE GRAVE OF ABEL.
Is now my place of rest, for never more
Shall I forsake that home.-
Where I shall sleep for ever.-
A voice which whispers to my soul, and cries,
"Thy wanderings are past, here lie thee down
For thy last expiation."God, I pray thee,
Let not this be a mockery, for thou see'st
How all reject me. It is thy decree,
And now I murmur not; but, if thy will
Summon me not, I shall devoted stand
Alone again, the outcast of the earth,
The loath'd of all her sons. My strength is gone,
And the dark fiend that doth beset my soul
Whispers me of despair. Oh, help me, God!—
The spurn'd of all, I turn me back to thee !—
Give me not up to Hell. My punishment
Hath mighty been, and mightily I have
Borne the severe decree. My bloody hands,
Now purified by suff'ring, I now upraise
From that deep bed where the slain victim lies,
Unto thine eye,-avert it not, O God!
The red stain is effaced!-Oh look down,—
Look down with mercy on me;-if my pangs
Have been an expiation.-If my soul
Be scourg'd not as my body, but may rest
Cured of its wounds upon thy healing breast,-
Then, call me from this earth,-arm thy right-hand
With thy tremendous bolt, and strike me dead !
Come, vivid lightning, spare no more this head,
But crumble it to cinders, and upon
Thy wing of glory, bear my mounting soul,
To seek for pardon at th' Almighty's throne.
Come, God of justice-God of mercy, now
Accept the sacrifice I place upon
This grave become thine altar; thou didst spurn
The first I offer'd, let this one, this last,
Find favour in thy sight.
Burn and consume the victim.
They lighted a taper at dead of night,
And chaunted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom!
Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here!
For a night-mare rides on my strangled sleep,
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
For Wallace of Enderslie.
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower,
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light looked dim and red,
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung on his holy death-bed;
No weeping there was when his bosom bled-
And his heart was rent in twain.
Oh! it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn ;
And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer
At the blast of the hunter's horn;
When he strode on the wreck of each well fought field
With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shiver'd on helmet or shield,
And the sword that seemed fit for Archangel to wield
Was light in his terrible hand.
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